


Feathers for the Pillows

by TheAsexualofSpades



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Morgana Knows about Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), can be platonic or romantic you decide, winged Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: A bird falls out of the sky when Merlin is little.
Relationships: Gaius & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Knights of the Round Table & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Morgana (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 311





	Feathers for the Pillows

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for the request! I do love that other fic...so thanks for this one!

**Prompt:** Hey there, I have a prompt for you if you'll take it! I absolutely loved your wingfics with Virgil, and was wondering if we could have something similar with Merlin? Maybe with his magic slowly turning him into a more ethereal magical being and giving him wings that he has to figure out how to deal with and hide? Possibly Arthur finding out? Thank you!

* * *

Merlin didn’t realize it was happening at first.

He was young, still learning how his human body worked, how his magic worked, how to play and run and jump and laugh. His mother looked on fondly and shook her head, wondering how the gods could’ve created such a boisterous little boy and then had the idea to give him magic on top. Perhaps in some way, it was a way to keep himself safe, when he toppled off of shelves he’d managed to float himself up into, or when he fell from trees that he was too young to climb. Or perhaps it was another of their tricks, something to keep the mortals busy and entertained while they plotted. Either way, Merlin has magic and he runs about the woods, leaves dancing along in his wake, the forest itself opening up and welcoming him into its shadows. Patches of golden light draw forth the gold from Merlin’s eyes. The forest breathes.

A bird falls out of the sky.

It lands in front of Merlin, strangely still. It looks at him with dull, cloudy eyes. The light glints off of its feathers. There are three bent out of place. It lies on a bed of leaves and looks at Merlin.

Merlin stops, tilting his head as he looks back. The bird’s eyes are unfocused, staring not at Merlin’s face but through it. The beak is open partway, the head cocked to the side. The wind ruffles its wings. The feathers twitch. It won’t look away from Merlin.

Merlin gulps, reaching out his chubby little hands and taking a step closer. Does the bird want his clothes?

“Merlin?” His mother’s voice comes from far away. “Merlin, it’s time to eat!”

Merlin stops, looking once more at the bird before turning around and running back home. The bird’s eyes watch him go.

Merlin dreams of flying.

When he’s just turning into a young man, his back starts to hurt all the time. His mother frets that he’s working too hard, but he mumbles that he’s been using magic, he’s not putting any strain on his back. She cuffs him lightly across the shoulder, but the furrow between her brows doesn’t disappear. It only deepens as Merlin’s back worsens, when little lips begin to appear beneath his shoulder blades.

She sends him to Camelot.

Gaius looks him over and raises an eyebrow—the first time Merlin sees the eyebrow of magical disbelief, but certainly not the last—and points Merlin to a drawing of a man with wings.

“They will grow,” Gaius explains solemnly, “but they will not hurt you.”

“They’re hurting me _now,_ ” Merlin grumbles, reaching around to scratch at his back. Gaius stops him.

“Growing pains are to be expected,” he says, “but they will get worse if you do not let them grow in properly.”

“How’m I supposed to do that?”

Neither of them knows. Neither of them knows because Merlin is magic, under Uther Pendragon’s nose, as the servant of the Crown Prince Arthur.

They can’t bind the wings as they grow. They can’t excuse Merlin’s back pain as anything other than back pain. They can only pad Merlin up with ill-fitting tunics so much.

Arthur doesn’t notice.

After a year, they’re fully grown. The feathers are…unruly, but small enough and white enough that they can be passed off as ornamentation, discarded from some elaborate headdress. The wings can fold up under his tunic and stay hidden, so long as no one touches him.

Well, that won’t be a problem.

He moves through the castle too fast for people to get a good look at him. The knights don’t want to look at him. Arthur only cuffs him upside the head.

His secret is safe.

Then he undergoes his first molt and he lies in agony for a day, as Gaius tries his best to care for the wings. The feathers overflow, crowding the room, until Merlin can figure out that they can make pillows out of them. It takes a moment for them to appear in the rest of the castle, but Morgana comes by to ask whether she can have an extra one. Apparently, they help with her nightmares.

Merlin is more than happy to oblige, at least until Morgana asks him where he gets the feathers from.

“Um…”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she winks, giving his arm a gentle pat, “I won’t tell. Just make sure you bring plenty, hmm?”

Morgana touches him. It’s always sweet, just a quick pat on his arm or his shoulder, but she touches him. She notices. Gwen notices too. And Gwen sticks by his side, is _allowed_ to stick by his side, when the feasts and the council meetings happen and they work.

“Merlin,” she admonishes one hot night, “you must take off at least one of those shirts, you’re going to boil to death.”

“I’m fine, Gwen,” Merlin says, wiping sweat off his brow, “I’ll only be cold in a few minutes.”

His hands are always cold.

The wings don’t like always being cooped up under his tunic, so he stretches them every once in a while. He goes out of Camelot, far away from the prying lights of the high walls, and sits in the forest, stretching his wings. They are a little stiff sometimes, but he works patiently until he can unfurl them painlessly, letting the extra feathers slide off to be collected.

“You really must tell me where you’re getting all these feathers, Merlin,” Morgana remarks one day, “maybe I’ll have to place an order large enough for a shawl.”

Merlin gulps. “I can—I can see?”

“Oh, I’m only teasing,” she says, taking him gently by the arm, “I know you’ve got more important things to do.”

“Merlin!”

“Like tending to Arthur,” she mutters, rolling her eyes as Arthur storms around the corner.

“There you are, come on. Job for you.”

“Coming.”

No, Arthur doesn’t notice.

The knights…the knights.

Leon notices, Leon notices everything. Although he doesn’t realize exactly what he’s noticing, Merlin watches him approach after a training session and carefully pull him to his feet.

“Can it be healed,” the knight asks softly, far too quiet for the others to hear, “what ails you?”

“What?”

Leon gestures to Merlin’s back. “I have known men that…cannot be healed as easily.”

Merlin’s shoulders slump. “No, it’s not…it’s the way I am.”

“I understand. Please,” Leon says, resting a kind hand on his shoulder, “do not hesitate to tell me if there are things that I can do to make this easier.”

Leon notices everything, Lancelot notices Merlin.

Merlin doesn’t bother to hide his magic from Lancelot. The man met him and _knew,_ and he takes very great pains to make sure that Merlin knows his secret is _safe_ with Lancelot. Merlin finds himself leaning on Lancelot more than he would care to admit, even going so far as to _physically_ lean on the man. Lancelot never minds, always reaching to stealthily make it a little easier for Merlin to stand. But Lancelot doesn’t put together that Merlin has wings.

“I’ll help you,” Lancelot promises when merlin says he doesn’t want to tell him, “you don’t owe me an explanation.”

Merlin lets himself slump forward into Lancelot gratefully.

Lancelot helps quietly, Gwaine helps loudly.

Whenever Merlin beings to slump, needing a break, Gwaine makes the loudest, most obnoxious distraction he can, be that some loud bawdy joke, some great exclamation, or knocking over a massive shelf of newly polished pie tins. He plays up his clumsiness, his ‘common’ nature, all to make everyone else more focused on _him_ than on Merlin.

“Let them think what they will,” he says to Merlin by the fire one night as they keep watch, “I don’t care. As long as you’re okay.”

“Even if you don’t…know why?”

Gwaine shrugs. “I trust you.”

Merlin smiles.

Gwaine distracts, Elyan suggests.

The first time Elyan notices Merlin wincing every time something comes near his back, he brings Merlin to the armory and suggests a leather tunic.

“It might help with support,” he says, pointing out the different points on the back, “and give your spine a little less to deal with.”

“…could it be made to fit under clothing?”

“Of course. I’ve got a friend that works down in the blacksmith’s district that makes ones to go under ladies’ clothes.”

Merlin looks at it and promises to think about it. In truth, if it’s going to be fitted properly, they’re going to have to see his wings.

That’s not a risk he’s willing to take.

But he does promise that Elyan can make him something to make things a little easier.

“I won’t pry,” Elyan promises, “but you’ll let us help, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Elyan puts things together, Percival pulls things apart.

“Easy,” the knight mutters as Merlin winces, “almost there.”

Merlin grits his teeth and _pulls,_ straining away from the metal digging into his back. Percival grunts, holding it apart.

“On three, ready?”

“Ready.”

“One…two…three.”

Merlin _yanks._ The metal comes apart in Percival’s hand and the force sends the two staggering apart, panting. Percival tosses the remains over his shoulder.

“That’s the last time I put one of those on,” Merlin grumbles, rubbing his shoulder.

Arthur had the great idea to do full melee drills today. Problem is, with Arthur standing back to watch, the knights are an odd number. Which means that Merlin was placed in a suit and made to hold a lance. The metal pressed his wings flat to his back and _squeezed,_ making it hard for Merlin to stand, much less fight.

Percival had taken one look at him and ushered him away, using his strength to pry apart the pieces to get Merlin free.

“Are you alright,” he asks, using a voice that Merlin has _never_ heard before, “are you very badly hurt?”

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Percival lays a large hand on Merlin’s back, only for Merlin to flinch away. “Sorry.”

“Just…” Merlin shakes his head. “Go tell Arthur I’ll be back in a minute, yeah?”

Percival leaves with a nod.

The knights notice, even if it’s not everything.

Then Morgana walks in without knocking while Merlin’s wings are out and he freezes.

“Oh,” she breathes, dropping the pieces of fabric she holds, looking at Merlin’s wings spread wide, “Merlin, they’re _beautiful._ ”

Merlin is too shocked to make a sound.

Morgana closes the door softly, walking forward with her hands outstretched. “I won’t hurt you, Merlin, I promise, I just… _wow._ ”

Merlin swallows. “Are you…you’re not afraid?”

“You’re Merlin,” Morgana smiles gently, “how could I be afraid?”

“They’re magic.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re still not afraid?”

“No.” She reaches out tentatively. “May I?”

Merlin _shudders_ as her hands lightly brush one of his feathers. She makes a soft noise.

“ _These_ are where those feathers come from,” she murmurs, “aren’t they?”

“…they’re mine.”

“They’re lovely,” she promises, her smile so wide, “and so are you.”

She giggles as Merlin flushes red.

Morgana vows to keep it a secret, and in turn, Merlin teaches her about magic. Her nightmares fade away as she sleeps on pillows they make together, as Merlin carefully grooms his wings and Morgana teaches him how to embroider. They keep it a secret, under the watchful eye of Gaius, sewing, and plucking and talking in the night. Gwen comes to join them, smiling wide and bringing Merlin into a gentle hug as he shows her for the first time. Her hands at the base of his spine feel warm.

“Do they hurt much?”

“Not anymore,” Merlin says, giving them an experimental shake, “I’ve…gotten used to it.”

“Well, you must let us help you when they hurt,” Morgana says, rethreading her needle, “if only as an act of repayment.”

“Repay—Morgana…”

“You’ve given us the gift of your feathers,” Morgana interrupts, “not to mention all that you’ve done for Camelot. For me.”

“And for me.”

“But I—“

“You’re lovely, Merlin,” Morgana promises, smiling when Merlin flushes red again, “let us help you?”

And what can Merlin do but say yes?

They do help, but there’s not a whole lot they can do. It just…it _hurts_ sometimes.

The feathers will itch. The wing joints will grow still and stiff. And when the wings grow still and stiff they’re just pounds of dead weight, almost _impossible_ to hide. Merlin grows slow on these days, unable to bound up the steps after Arthur or dart about the castle. Instead, he sits and does small chores, like polishing armor or writing speeches. Morgana will sit with him if she can, sewing. Gwen will fetch her own chores and they’ll do them together. The knights will sit with him and keep the other eyes of the castle away.

Arthur…Arthur doesn’t do much.

And really, really well…isn’t that why it might hurt so badly?

Merlin spends nearly _all_ of his time with Arthur. He knows more about Arthur than he does about nearly everyone, maybe even more than he knows about himself, and Arthur just…doesn’t care?

That makes the wings grow a little heavier.

One day, it’s very bad. Merlin can’t roll over, can’t dislodge the weight on his back. It makes it hard to breathe with his chest smashed as it is against the mattress. He stares at the wall, blinking, unfocused, not seeing anything but the vague light and dark spots against the solid gray of the stone. It hurts. He feels dull, lifeless, unable to summon any energy to move.

His eyes begin to cloud over as he lies still.

Soft footsteps outside his door. The door opening slowly and closing just as slowly. The creak of the floorboards as someone walks to sit next to his head. Red jerkin. Brown trousers. Golden hair.

…Arthur?

“Hello, Merlin,” Arthur says softly, “hard day?”

Merlin nods, confused as to why Arthur’s here and why he’s not shouting at Merlin to get his lazy arse out of bed.

“Are you feeling alright?”

The answer that Arthur probably wants is ‘yes.’ The honest answer is ‘no.’ The _very_ honest answer is ‘why do you care?’

Merlin settles for shaking his head.

Arthur makes a noise of sympathy, reaching forward to card his fingers lightly through Merlin’s greasy hair. His fingers reach through to Merlin’s scalp, scratching gently.

“Arthur?”

“Yes, Merlin,” Arthur says immediately, “it’s only me. Does it hurt very much today?”

Merlin frowns. How…what…what is Arthur doing?

“Did Gaius…Gaius tell you?”

“No, Merlin. I figured that when you didn’t show up today that something might be wrong, so I…came to check.” Arthur smiles and ruffles Merlin’s hair. “Good thing I did.”

  
“Not—I meant about my—my—“

Merlin runs of out air, twisting his head as he is to look up at Arthur from his position on his stomach.

“Easy,” Arthur says, gentling Merlin’s head back to the pillow, “rest your neck. I’ll talk, yeah?”

Merlin’s too exhausted to do anything but obey.

“No, Gaius didn’t tell me about your back, Merlin.”

“…Morgana?”

“No, not Morgana.”

“Gwen?”

“Not Gwen.”

“…knights?”

“Not the knights either.” Arthur’s hand reaches down to scratch at the base of Merlin’s head. “No one had to tell me, Merlin.”

But Arthur…but he…

“You never noticed,” Merlin mumbles, half into the pillow, “not…ever. Not before.”

“About your back?” When Merlin nods, Arthur huffs gently. “Merlin, I noticed the first day you arrived in Camelot.”

_What?_

“I just…well, I figured you were…that you may be ashamed of it,” Arthur continues, a little sheepish, “or maybe I assumed you’d prefer if I never brought it up.”

“S-so…so you…”

“I always knew, Merlin,” Arthur says softly, “but I…no, I’m—I’m sorry I never said anything.”

“…oh.”

Arthur shifts, getting off the stool to kneel on the floor, his face next to Merlin’s, his hand still rubbing the base of Merlin’s skull. “Can I make up for that a little by helping now?”

Merlin nods.

“Right,” Arthur murmurs, “now…thank you, firstly. Second, have you tried getting out of bed today?”

Merlin shakes his head, growing more and more miserable.

“Alright…would you like to?”

“…’ve got work.”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” Arthur chides gently, “I asked if you’d like to get out of bed.”

He smiles kindly when Merlin seems to flounder for an answer.

“I can help you get out of bed if you like,” he says, “but…you are also allowed to lie here for today. Especially if it hurts. I’ll stay with you.”

“You…you will?”

Arthur smiles, petting Merlin’s hair again. “Of course.”

Merlin closes his eyes, losing himself in the gentle pats. It…it might be nice to try and sleep again, but…but his wings might just hurt _more_ when he wakes up.

“No?” Arthur nods when Merlin shakes his head. “Alright. Let’s…let’s see if we can at least sit you up.”

He tucks a palm under Merlin’s head and holds it steady, reaching low and wrapping his arm around Merlin’s waist.

“Hang on.”

Merlin’s back strains with the wings as Arthur begins to sit him up, only for Arthur to grunt and pull harder.

“You’re much heavier than you look, Merlin,” he says worriedly, “are you—are you _sure_ you’re not hurt?”

“I—I’m—“

“Are they broken?”

Merlin _freezes._

He looks slowly at Arthur. Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“Come on. My Merlin doesn’t get to grow wings and not have me notice.”

“I—I—“

“Shh,” Arthur soothes, his arms still tightly around Merlin, “it’s alright. Do I look angry?”

“N-no, but—“

“I’m not. I’m worried.” Arthur nods at Merlin’s wings. “Are they broken?”

“N-no, just…just stiff.”

“Alright. Can I…can I help?”

Merlin swallows. Arthur…Arthur _knows._ Arthur’s not angry. Arthur’s not…angry?

“My Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, gently bumping his head against Merlin’s, “of course I’m not angry, you’re lovely.”

He chuckles when Merlin flushes _red again,_ adjusting his grip to help the blanket stay on Merlin’s shoulders.

“Will you let me help?”

Merlin’s fingers tighten in the front of Arthur’s jerkin and he nods.

“I’m going to take the blanket off now, okay?”

The blanket falls to the bed and Merlin’s wings unfurl, spreading as wide as they can, trying to stretch. Arthur’s breath catches in his throat as he holds onto Merlin.

“Oh, _Merlin…_ ”

“They hurt,” he mumbles, “they _hurt._ ”

“Alright,” Arthur mutters to himself, “alright. Let’s do this.”

The bed sinks behind him as Arthur carefully positions himself between the wings. He reaches out to gently card his fingers through the wings, going _right_ to the glands.

_“Ah!”_

“Sorry,” Arthur mumbles, “I’ll be more gentle.”

“How—“ Merlin shudders and gasps as Arthur’s warm, _warm_ hands move easily through his wings— “how do you know how to do this?”

“The stable has hawks,” Arthur murmurs, gently sorting out the stiff joints, “and I learned how to tend to them when the stable master taught me to hunt.”

“So—so you— _ah!_ ”

Merlin can hear the smile in Arthur’s voice as he rubs his thumb around the base of the joint connecting Merlin’s wing to his back. “Yes, Merlin, I know what I’m doing.”

Merlin has _never_ been touched like this.

Arthur knows just how to stroke the muscles to get them to relax, to pull out the broken and crumpled feathers and work the oil throughout. He knows just how gentle to be when he swipes his thumb across the gland, knows just how firm to be when he runs his fingers through the base of the wings. He knows _Merlin,_ knows how to pause when Merlin shudders too much, how to reassure him that he’s almost there, just a moment, please.

“H-how—“ Merlin bits back another gasp as Arthur straightens a particularly stubborn feather— “how did you n-not tell me?”

“I thought you were ashamed of them,” Arthur says softly, resting his hands at the base of Merlin’s sides, “I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“I…”

_Was_ he?

“…I was ashamed of my—of the magic,” he stumbles, “and I…”

“Oh, Merlin,” Arthur says quietly, reaching forward to wrap his arms around Merlin’s waist, “you should never be ashamed of _your_ magic.”

He chuckles when he feels Merlin gasp under his hands.

“That one you can blame on everyone else not doing a good job of hiding it.”

“Don’t be mad at them,” Merlin blurts, “please, it’s not their fault—“

“Shh,” Arthur rumbles, reaching up to scratch at the soft part of Merlin’s wings again, “I’m not. Just...you can exhale now, Merlin, it’s alright.”

Merlin _breathes._ His wings flutter a little. A tiny gold glimmer darts around the feathers. He relaxes back into Arthur’s arms, letting Arthur hold his weight and his wings.

“You’re alright, now…”

A soft knock on the door.

“Who is it?”

“Morgana.”

“And Gwen!”

“Merlin?” Arthur chuckles when Merlin just mumbles. “Come in.”

Morgana giggles as she catches sight of Merlin all sprawled out on Arthur’s chest. “Seems Arthur started feather collecting earlier, hmm?”

“Feather collecting?”

“You didn’t think those pillows made themselves, did you?”

Gwen rolls her eyes as the two bicker, reaching to gently pull Merlin forward to hug him.

“You feeling a little better?”

“A little.”

Gwen smiles. “I’m so glad. You look…a little lighter too.”

Merlin smiles back.

“He hasn’t told you either?”

Merlin glances around to see Morgana shaking her head. Arthur huffs.

“Well, now we _both_ have to ask him.”

Merlin’s face goes pale. “A-ask me what?”

“Don’t look so afraid,” Morgana says, “it ruins your lovely face.”

…well, he’s not _pale_ anymore.

“Stop flirting with my Merlin.”

“Oh he’s _your_ Merlin, now, is he?”

“He’s always been my Merlin.”

“What did you want to ask me,” Merlin interrupts before his face can get any redder.

“Right.” Arthur claps his hands. “Can you fly?”

“What?”

“Can you fly?” Arthur gestures to the wings. “Or are they just there to be pretty?”

“What happened to no flirting?”

“Oh, that’s just for you.”

“ _Rude._ ”

“I, um…” Merlin twists his hands together. “I’ve never tried.”

Morgana looks at Arthur. Arthur looks at Morgana. They both look at Merlin. Gwen giggles.

Merlin sighs.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

Merlin dreams of flying.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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